had been termed, who was quite a young man, smiled again, then flushed a little, and answered:

"I have rehearsed in Tannhäuser' twice, gentlemen, and I do not feel at liberty to join in your mirth."

66

'Precisely," retorted his opponent. "My friends, the gloom of despair is upon him. No one concerned in this cursed diablerie will ever be joyous again."

technical skill on the part of all its members.

I asked if the impression produced upon him- which I need not say was due to broader considerations than the mere study of his own part, notwithstanding his first intimation-extended to others.

"I think so," he replied guardedly; "but there are unpleasant influences. Most of us have a great affec

Entering the café at an earlier hour than usual, a day or two after, I saw the gentleman who had dared to withstand the popular current, sitting alone. Few visitors had arrived, and I placed myself at the table nearest him, which was vacant. The barriers to conversation are very slight with most Frenchmen, and I found no difficulty in opening an intercourse which, though it was chiefly confined to our meetings in this one locality, became extremely agreeable, at least to me, and almost grew to intimacy before my departure from Paris.

Without much delay, I explained the interest I felt in the impending event, and referring to the dialogue I had overheard, expressed my pleasure at meeting a French artist free from the extreme prejudices then prevalent. I used the word "artist" because it had been applied to him by his friend, though I knew nothing of his position in the Opéra, or of his share in the work in hand.

"Well," he remarked, "I take things as I find them. It does not become me, a poor devil of a second violin, to make grimaces at a composition of which all I know is that every note in my part of it commands my respect."

My new acquaintance was not, then, of a rank that enabled him to speak with the highest authority, but perhaps the information falling within his limited range might be none the less valuable. In fact, I soon discovered that the post of second violin at the Imperial Academy was significant of no lack of intelligence or culture in the occupant. The orchestra of this establishment is selected and appointed under conditions likely to insure intellectual qualifications as well as

Meyerbeer; and Wagner is so indiscreet."

This was in reference to the German composer's biting sarcasms upon the two idols of Parisian musical society, both of them aliens, by the by, but accepted as citizens of the French artistic nationality, in consequence of their approved willingness to conform to French traditions and methods. Not only had the new comer violently assailed, in his "Quatre Poèmes d'Opéra" and other brochures, these cherished and still living favorites, but he had injudiciously caused the essays to be republished in Paris, a few months before, with what particular purpose, it

is difficult to conjecture.

I met my orchestral sympathizer often, and took much satisfaction in discovering that he was able, with a few words, to dispose of many malicious reports which began to be freely circulated. One of these, repeated with fantastic emphasis by almost every journal in the city, related to an alleged quarrel between Wagner and Hain'l, the latter being the thoroughly accomplished chef d'orchestre of the Opéra, on account of the composer's desire to conduct the rehearsals and assume exclusive control of the entire production. The knights of the press were fierce in repelling this pretended invasion of prerogative. The custom of all recorded time, they declared, forbade interference with any of the sacred rights of the omnipotent chef. This was an absurdity, for the omnipotent chef frequently cedes his functions to masters ambitious of that especial distinction, as has more recently been apparent in the cases of Verdi and Gounod; but there are periods when well-devised absurdities have a more penetrating effect upon the French mind than the most

had grossly insulted the regular attachés of the institution, necessitating the exchange of mortal defiance. Wagner had. attempted to override the commands of the principal personage in the empire, as a consequence of which the reddest republicans about town became ludicrously loyal for a week. In the face of the common enemy it was deemed politic to unite, and to forget the gulf between democracy and despotism. It would not. have been altogether surprising to hear the Marseillaise called for at the Opéra. But as a rule the enmity took the form of envenomed raillery. The singers were falling into a decline. The chorus was so reduced as to endanger the proper representation of the ordinary repertory. No strings could be kept unbroken on the violins, and the wind instruments were all twisted out of shape by the extraordinary sounds they were called upon to produce. The walls of the house were shaken and the stability of the structure imperilled by the infernal crash and clatter which daily resounded within them. It is to be hoped that the sensitive composer was left in ignorance of these malignant signs and tokens; or that, if confronted by them, they at least served to admonish him in some degree of the wrath to come.

It was a painful disappointment to discover that my chances of witnessing the production were rapidly slipping away. The utmost hostility that Paris could concentrate would not prevent the performance from being careful and painstaking in all respects, and in many, brilliant. I could have hoped to listen and enjoy, though others might condemn. Vain expectation! I did not know of what Paris was capable. As it happened, the long postponement was wholly to my advantage. Luck never served me a better turn, for nobody heard a single scene on the first public night, whereas the expedient to which I was driven enabled me to attend not only one, but three of what I may believe to have been as thorough and excellent representations of "Tannhäuser" as any theatre has ever afforded.

The idea of consulting my friend of the orchestra as to the possibility of wit

nessing one of the rehearsals had occurred to me, but I dismissed it as soon as I learned from him how rigid was the discipline, and how strict the enforcement of rules in the institution where he filled an undistinguished position. What I did do was to get from him the address of Wagner; and then, as a last resort, I wrote a note to the master, frankly stating my case- saying what I wanted, why I wanted it, explaining the trifling claims I might possibly have upon his indulgence, and mentioning the manner in which I could manifest my appreciation of his courtesy, if he saw fit to accede to my request. No doubt it was a rash experiment. If I had been ten years older, I should certainly not have attempted it, but youth and the confidence of enthusiasm helped me through.' I wrote in English, fearing the inferences that might be drawn from such imperfect German as I could command, and assuming that my own language would be more likely, first, to attract attention, and next, to enlist sympathy, than that which was in those days chiefly familiar to the composer as the vehicle for manifestations of virulent animosity. The instinct which thus guided me was probably a fortunate one. I do not think, however, that I had courage to reveal what I had done, even to intimate friends. In America, nothing would be more natural than such a proceeding. The application would have been quite in the ordinary course, and its success almost a foregone conclusion. But it needed only a short observation of European usages to learn that the ways of the old world were not our ways, and that what might lie fairly within the lines of order in the United States would be regarded there as a monstrous invasion of the proprieties.

Three or four days passed, and no response was given to my appeal. I began philosophically to set before myself the arguments against the likelihood that any attention would be paid to it, until I accidentally heard it stated that Wagner was not residing at the place to which my missive had been sent. Anxious to assure myself on this head, I called one afternoon at the designated number in Rue d'Aumale, simply to discover if I

had been at first properly advised as to the direction. A slow-witted concièrge was so little inclined to supply information, vouchsafing only a half intelligible reference to the second floor, that I was compelled to enter and search for myself. Arriving at the indicated elevation, I put myself in communication with a doorkeeper of the most good-natured appearance, but who proved incapable of speaking or understanding more than half a dozen French sentences. To my inquiry if M. Wagner dwelt there, I could get no other answer than a demand for my card, which he would not vary, although I tried to explain that I did not wish to see anybody, but only to ascertain if that was M. Wagner's abode. As he would be content with nothing short of the card, I hesitatingly confided it to him, and was at once relieved and re-embarrassed when a business-like young man appeared and, happily in French, asked my errand. Once again I protested that I had no further errand than to learn if this were M. Wagner's veritable address, as I was in doubt about the delivery of a letter to him. "This is the address," said he; "I will see if your letter has arrived."

Whereupon, in great discomfort, I reiterated my innocence of any design to intrude or to demand a reply, desiring merely to satisfy myself that there had been no error in transmission. He nevertheless insisted, and after absenting himself a moment, returned with a companion, a short, middle-aged man, whose countenance struck me in the dim light of the corridor as of a peculiarly mild, not to say patient and tender cast, and whose profile gave me the suddenest quaint suggestion of the famous mountain outline in Franconia, New Hampshire. He looked attentively at me, - possibly, I afterward thought, to determine whether my petition had been genuine or not, for I learned that tickets had been in great demand, and that all sorts of devices had been employed to procure them, sometimes with dishonest views. While he gazed, I made a last effort with my thrice urged disavowal of intention to intrude, but stopped, more confused than ever when the new comer began to say, in a low and gentle voice:

"You are very welcome. You will please to excuse the failure to answer you, but we have been so much occupied, so much pressed. A note (billet) will reach you this evening."

I uttered some vague words of acknowledgment, to which he rejoined:

"There is no reason. Only you will excuse the omission to answer before. You will certainly receive a billet this evening."

I went away, not much questioning that I had spoken with Wagner, yet not altogether sure, for neither his appearance nor his manner of expressing himself corresponded with the harsh and tempestuous disposition generally ascribed to him. But the promise was fulfilled. The billet followed me home almost immediately; a ticket of admission to the Opéra for the following Sunday evening, accompanied by the composer's card. The ticket was similar to those issued for regular performances, and the hour of commencement was marked upon it. I received it with intense gratification, and indeed it was not long before I learned it was much more of a favor than I could have reasonably expected to obtain.

On the appointed evening, as I approached the familiar edifice in Rue Lepeletier, which I expected to find enveloped in the customary obscurity of an "off" night, I was astonished to see it illuminated quite as profusely as on ordinary public occasions. Fearing that a change had been made in the arrangements, I looked around the vestibule for some hint or warning, and noticed that the operation of ticket-selling was not in progress, and that the windows for that purpose were all closed. But the formalities of admission were preserved, and the passages within were under control of the usual corps of old ladies, best known to foreigners as footstool fiends. All this was strange enough, but the culmination came when the door to the stalls was thrown open and I entered the auditorium. The house was filled in every visible part, absolutely overflowing, and with one of the most "showy" audiences I ever saw united there. It differed from the assemblage of an important first representation only in the

circumstance that it was already gathered and seated before the time of beginning. Never before had I seen the Opéra thus crowded at so early an hour. Most of the ladies in the lower tiers of boxes were in full dress. I was bewildered, as I fancy anybody would have been, as ignorant as myself of the Parisian system of managing "private rehearsals," and accustomed to regard the preparatory labors of a theatre as surrounded by impenetrable mystery. The fact is, although I did not then realize it, that no work is considered ready for production at this thorough-going institution, unless the last dozen or so of rehearsals are sufficiently perfect to stand the test of critical scrutiny on the broadest scale; and the practice of permitting the élite of influence and position to be present on these occasions is not without advantages, in spite of certain inconveniences caused by too great an extension of the privilege. For my own part, I think there is much more to be said against than on behalf of it; but I ought to remember it leniently, for without it I should never have heard "Tannhäuser" in Paris, nor, at that period, would any other living soul.

It is not my purpose to speak too minutely of the performance. That it was finished, exact, and characterized by a degree of delicacy which I am compelled to believe could not have been rivalled, at that period, in any German theatre, those who can recall the productions of the Opéra in those days will be willing to credit. The orchestral support was superb. I have never elsewhere heard the quick movement of the overture played with equal spirit and energy. Under the firm guidance of M. Hain'l, the unified body of fourscore musicians, each one an undisputed master of his instrument, dashed through the imagery of witchcraft, seductive magic, knightly intrepidity, the storms of passion, and the wildness of despair, like a demoniac whirlwind. And thus it swayed that vast, and presumably intelligent, mass of listeners, who, not being "on guard," as it were, and knowing themselves free to follow their true impulses, unhindered by the fear of popular odium, broke forth into

acclamations which seemed the presage of an almost certain victory for the composer in the near future. Nor can I recollect an instance when the fine march,

which needs a severity of treatment without which it degenerates into a swinging laziness fatal to dignity, has re— sounded with nobler or more chivalrous expression. The chorus was not always what could be desired, but even these subordinate participants, probably most liable of all to demoralization from without, appeared to have been lifted to an approximate sense of their share in a demonstration of deeper meaning and more liberal promise than any of those in which they were habitually engaged. As to the principal vocalists, the sincerity and earnestness of their co-operation seemed to defy the most censorious scrutiny. I have heard and read many accusations of alleged treachery among them on the opening night, but I distrust the accuracy of charges based upon anything that took place upon the stage on that turbulent occasion. Throughout the evening of which I am now speaking, they were all that the author's most fastidious disciple could have desired. They were not all artists of the highest rank, but there were none without just pretensions to respectability of reputation and attainment, while some were qualified for the most honorable degree in their vocation. And their loyalty and honesty of endeavor were unswerving from beginning to end.

It was with much pleasure that I discovered, in the group of vocalists, the excellent baritone, Morelli. I had known him well, for several years, in America, where he had been a valuable member of almost every opera troupe since his arrival in the country with Madame La Grange. His name had been plainly before my eyes on the Paris programmes, but I had not thought of identifying my old acquaintance of the Italian stage with this favorite exponent of the French lyric drama. Had I been aware of his presence, the difficulty of ingress to the house would never have existed; but perhaps it had fallen out for the best. At any rate, if the easier and more usual path had been opened to me, I should not have been brought into personal con